The Long Gray Goodbye: A Seth Halliday Novel

by Bobby Underwood

  Last night, after making love, she had confessed before slipping off to dream that she had once fantasized about being in Paris with someone she loved. She told me in a whisper how happy she was that it was coming true, and that I was the one with whom she was sharing her dream.

  I had decided then, as she began to lightly snore, that we would soak in Paris as much as possible while we had the chance, even if it meant a small delay before heading to Mykonos. Life was too short; too short for a young girl thrown from a plane above Ecuador; too short for Holly or Susan, or perhaps both of them; and too short for Caroline and I — no matter how long we had before our own long gray goodbye.

  I have to admit I was impressed with the look and design of de Gaulle. Terminal 2E where people were departing for flights was especially nice. The red carpet, the elegant tunnel design, even the display screens indicating where to go. Functionality could indeed be blended with an eye to beauty, even at an airport. Who knew? No one who’d ever designed an American airport, of that I was certain.

  As we retrieved our luggage I noticed a woman walking toward me with purpose in mind. She was older, perhaps in her mid-sixties, but her vitality, and more than a hint of sensuality made her ageless. She wore very high heels that made her elegantly contoured hips sway as she came striding toward us. She wore finely cut black slacks and a white dress blouse with a ruffled collar which probably cost more than everything we had in our bags. Her hair was genuine black, the color of coal. Unlike a lot of women her age, she had not only kept it long, but made it work for her. I was certain that approached from behind, young men fixated on her soft, heart-shaped hips with lusty thoughts in their hearts. Even after she’d turned around and they realized her age, their disappointment would quickly fade, the lust returning. Her eyes were the darkest I’d ever seen, made even more striking by her unusually white skin.

  The woman smiled when she reached me, and it was a very lovely smile. She said, “Hello, I’m Athea Christos, an attorney. And unless Laura described you incorrectly, you must be Seth Halliday.”

  Things were falling into place.

  “Guilty as charged, I’m afraid. You work for Laura Garner?”

  She laughed. “No, although we did work together once, on a telefilm she made in Greece. She was very young at the time, and I was, well, younger, shall we say? I am simply doing a favor for an old friend.”

  I smiled. “So you were a child actress as well?”

  She laughed again. Her dark, almost witchy-poo Greek features — she was wearing a wedding ring, and spoke with a French accent, so it was possible she was of another nationality, the last name belonging to her husband — belied an effervescent personality. Nothing could mask her softly sculpted body or the sensuality she exuded, however.

  She said, “I’ll pretend like that’s even in the realm of possibility, and answer a polite, No.”

  Caroline was helping Katarina do something with her bag but Sonny joined me.

  She frowned. “I wasn’t told there would be anyone with you, other than your wife.”

  “Last second change of plans,” I said.

  “Oh, it’s not an issue, it’s simply that I only have one license to carry and one weapon. It is a Glock.” She handed me a small, locked case she’d been carrying, and a tiny key.

  “The French authorities were reluctant to expedite these matters at first, even for Laura, but a Mr. Fernandez spoke with them and the way was cleared.”

  I wondered how he would have known until I remembered Laura’s media conference. He would already have heard from Florencia about the situation in Ecuador and known the ex-Miami detective was me.

  “Laura has arranged for a horse-drawn carriage ride through Paris this evening. She was unaware that there would be four instead of two, but the carriages are big enough to accommodate two couples. It is scheduled to meet you at nine this evening in front of your hotel, but I can play with that if it doesn’t suit your needs.”

  “It suits our needs just fine!” Caroline blurted, having joined me. So had Katarina. Athena reintroduced herself.

  Katarina commented, mostly for Caroline’s benefit, “The carriages are more than large enough, and the ride through Paris at night is spectacular.” Caroline looked as though she were ready to go immediately.

  “Paris is a lovely city. I am certain you will enjoy your time here, at least when you are not looking into more painful matters.”

  “I’m sure we will,” responded Caroline, trying not to look as happy as she was to be in Paris. We were, after all, as Athea had pointed out, looking into some very ugly business.

  “I’ll need to speak with the person who examined Holly Carmichael’s body, and see the records from Holly’s suicide. It was a long time ago, so it may not be the same coroner or medical examiner. I’ll also need to see the file on Susan’s disappearance. I may need to speak with the cop or cops who handled both.”

  I was about to apologize for asking so much of her, but she put up a hand to stop me.

  “When Laura called me, I anticipated most of what you’ve asked. I have the official police files on both cases. They were only given to me on the provision that they never leave my sight. So I will need to be present when you look at them. You may make notes, but no copies.”

  “You have them with you now?”

  She flashed a half-smile. “Yes, and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that Laura instructed me that you were to enjoy this evening unencumbered, as she put it, by death and loss. So I have been forbidden to show you the files until tomorrow.”

  I still wasn’t sure they hadn’t stopped making Laura’s model. Laura Garner might have been the last one off the assembly line.

  “What about the medical stuff?”

  “I will make some calls. I am fairly confident I can arrange a meeting with the appropriate person. I’ll let you know what I can set up. May I suggest we meet at the cafe down the street from your hotel tomorrow morning? Let’s say, ten o’clock, so that you may sleep in after your fist night in the City of Lights?”

  “Cool,” Sonny replied, before I could suggest an earlier time.

  Athena looked back and forth between us, eyebrows raised in question. We didn’t have any.

  “In that case,” she said, “your ride to the airport is outside that door. Your driver’s name is Ciro.” Her voice softened, switching from official business to something else. “He is my grandson, and knows Paris like the back of his hand. At least when he is not staring at his phone. He is not to use it while driving so please tell me if he does.” She took a deep breath and gave me a look that asked for my patience. “I love him to death, but I think the world would be lost if his generation had to fight a real war like our fathers had to. Life is not a video game.”

  Sonny chuckled and got a poke in the ribs from Katarina. I smiled and nodded knowingly. French youth was just about on a par with American youth from the sound of things. If it was similar across the globe, the world was doomed.

  As I watched Athea Christos walk away, I tried to recall the last time I’d seen anyone as spectacular in her age bracket. I couldn’t think of any.

  Twenty-Five

  We had booked into a very high-end Paris hotel whose name I could not pronounce without putting on my salmon colored shirt. Ciro got us there smoothly and safely, with no cell phone in sight. I would not want to make Athea angry either.

  Our adjoining rooms were elegantly restful and lovely, each having a big wide porcelain bathtub with gold taps. By Sonny’s calculations, the tubs were big enough for two. I assured Sonny after he made the comment that I had no intention of bathing with him, which sent Caroline and Katarina into a fit of laughter. Sonny practiced signing the one universal hand gesture he knew, understood by both the deaf and the hearing.

  While the girls — despite the reproachful scorn of feminists, men always think of the opposite sex as girls, regardless of age — did a walk-through of both rooms, oohing
and aahing over this little luxury or that little frivolous convenience, I availed myself of the shower. The water pressure was fine, and the hot water rose to an appropriate temperature.

  I was happy to see all those nuclear reactors France used to power their country working like a top. You couldn’t build and use them in America to give clean, reliable power to everyone because of liberals who’d watched The China Syndrome once too often and freaked out. Hypocritically, they lauded everything about Europe, especially France, failing to mention the itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, gigantic fact that the vast majority of electricity in France was supplied by all the nuclear reactors they’d built for that specific purpose.

  When I finished washing and opened the big shower door, Caroline was standing there holding a bottle of shampoo, wearing only a smile. She’d been waiting for me to finish. She shrieked as I reached out and pulled her inside with me, and turned the water back on. Happy laughter followed, and several minutes later, shrieks of another kind. I didn’t mind having a second shower. You can never be too clean.

  Thirty minutes later, having made a fun memory in Paris, we were dressing. Though it wasn’t the kind of thing Caroline ever forgot, I had noticed her jotting something down on one of the little squares while I was finding something to wear. I knew it was a small carryover from the incident at the mall, but she was happy, and that’s all that mattered.

  She looked amazing in an off-the-shoulder, floor-length cream colored dress made from a smooth, silky material. It had tiny horizontal pleats which wrapped around her, silhouetting her girlish form. She looked as though she’d been dipped in a vat of cream. She was the light, it was the world around her which was dark.

  Caroline had wisely included a pair of gray dress slacks and white dress shirt among her purchases for me back in Miami. She’d even picked out a matching gray tie with tiny little red designs in it. I put them on. We were going somewhere nice for dinner, and later, a carriage ride through Paris, after all.

  Two short knocks on the adjoining room door were followed by Katarina opening it slightly and peeping around the corner. “Are you guys ready?”

  “Almost,” answered Caroline. “I just need to find a pair of earrings to go with this dress.” I don’t need to explain to any male how it went from there. While Katarina, who was wearing a short black cocktail dress that made her look like a 1960s sex kitten, found some that she knew would go perfect with Caroline’s dress, I used the key Athea had given me to open the little box with the Glock inside. Once a woman starts helping another decide on jewelry, even a down-to-earth girl like Caroline, you were sure to have plenty of time.

  Knowing I’d have to use one of the restaurant’s dinner jackets I considered having Sonny slip the weapon into his pants at the back because Katarina had packed him one. Sonny hated gun’s however, using them only when he had to, even when he’d been smuggling in the traffic. I couldn’t see that we’d be in any danger at the fancy-schmancy place across the street from our hotel, or on our ride through Paris. Still, I felt naked without a phallic symbol of my masculinity within reach. Even on the plane I’d felt its absence. Seth Halliday, a manly man in the prime of his manhood.

  I loaded the Glock, placing it in my hand to get the weight and feel of it. It wasn’t my favorite weapon, but I’d used one before and knew what to expect if I had to fire it. The little case it had come in was deep, and when I lifted the velvet tray, I found it held a shoulder holster and an ankle holster. Laura’s friend Athena was spectacular and efficient.

  By the time I was through strapping on the ankle holster and had the permit folded and tucked away in my wallet, Caroline and Katarina were through fussing. Two tiny little pearl earrings called attention to Caroline’s earlobes and acted as an extension of the dress. Well, I hadn’t said they didn’t know what they were doing, just that it took a while.

  We went downstairs and through the lavishly decorated lobby, looking like characters out of a Cary Grant movie. We were almost out the door when Caroline’s phone rang. I remembered why I hated them with a red-hot passion.

  “Sorry,” Caroline whispered. “I forgot to turn it off.”

  “It might be important. Find out.”

  She answered as we stood just inside the door.

  “Oh, hi. How did you get…? Oh, of course.” Caroline smiled. “Yes, it’s lovely. We’re going for a carriage ride after dinner. Yeah, me, too. Okay, I’ll put him on.”

  Caroline covered the phone with her hand. “It’s Josselyn. Daniel gave her the number.” She handed it to me.

  “Josselyn? Has something happened?”

  “I’m in Puerto Lopez.”

  “No!” I said more angrily than I’d meant to. “You don’t realize how dangerous this man is, Josselyn.”

  “Don’t worry! I told my husband about things and we’re here together, with security. There is an election coming up in a few months. A sort of surprise visit to get out among the people. It is the perfect opportunity for me to quietly ask questions, and for someone to answer a question without fear of anyone becoming suspicious.”

  The clerk who had been watching us expressed with his face his utter disdain for the uncouth Americans — and one Russian — as only the French can. I waved everyone over to one of the big sofas in the lobby and we all sat. I realized it was late afternoon in Ecuador. I also realized Josselyn was right. It would be the perfect cover both for asking questions and having them answered. No one would ever suspect anything other than political vote-pandering was going on.

  “Alright. I just didn’t want you putting yourself in danger, Josselyn.”

  “I’m not, but it is sweet that you worry. It is nice being friends, after all these years.”

  I smiled. “Yes, it is.”

  “Our day is almost over, but an old woman spoke to me. She has lived here all her life, and knows much. The man who used to come with the two young people always remained in the vehicle, waiting. But she saw him once, when they took too long and he had to relieve himself. She says he is very big, muscular, dark hair. She likened his movements to a jungle cat, languid but deceptive, always ready to pounce. There is a small scar on his left cheek. She said his face was handsome until he saw that the old woman had seen him. When he looked at her, he smiled, but his eyes reminded her of Diabolo, the Devil.”

  “Did she have any idea of where they came from?”

  “That is the best part. The young girl got to talking to one of the women in the shops. She let slip that she lived in the mountains behind Tena. There is much jungle there, Seth. Before she could say more, however, her brother whisked her away. The woman who ran the shop said he seemed more frightened that she’d mentioned this than angry with her.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Perhaps a year or so.”

  “Thank you, that is something.”

  “It is a place to start, anyway.” She paused. “Be careful, Seth. This is no crazy woman given to histrionics. She called him Diabolo for a reason.”

  “I will, and thank you.”

  Her voice became soft. “Enjoy your evening. And let me know how things turn out.”

  “I will. Goodbye.”

  “Adios.”

  I handed Caroline the phone and kissed her. “Let’s go see if we can find something eatable around here.”

  Paris was coming to life after dark like Miami did once the sun went down, but in a different way. As we walked across the street to the restaurant we could feel it. Whereas Miami had glitz and sex, Paris had elegance and a romantic aura; a gentler approach to the same end — the boudoir.

  I was provided a dinner jacket by a disapproving maître d’ and we were seated. The waiter was less disapproving because Katarina ordered for us in French. She even appeared to have a bit of a French accent as she ordered. Her skimpy little black cocktail dress with lots of lovely cleavage showing probably hadn’t hurt either. At any rate, it was all very luxurious and the food was delicious, if a bit skimpy, and rich. Katrina t
old us what it was in French, but like the hotel where we were staying, I had a little trouble pronouncing it. She laughed and started to tell us what it actually was but Sonny stopped her, saying, “I’d rather just enjoy it and not know.”

  It was almost time to catch our ride as the girls finished some flaky dessert they’d ordered. Both Sonny and I had asked if pie was anywhere on the menu but Katarina had given us that, “You poor boys” look that said it wasn’t. There wasn’t much meal to let settle, though it had been tasty, so we took care of the check and headed out.

  Parked across the street in front of our hotel set a long white open carriage pulled by a white horse. Not the light color with blemishes too often labeled as white, but genuine white, like James Drury used to ride in The Virginian. It was a picturesque scene right out of the 1800s when Paris had cobblestone streets. Sitting atop the coach was a tall, pretty brunette, sexy in a tuxedo and top hat. She looked like she could handle a lot more than that horse.

  “The Halliday party?” she asked as we got close. Her voice was Greta Garbo husky but she didn’t have a French accent. She didn’t appear to have any accent whatsoever that I could detect, other than sexy.

  “That’s us,” Caroline answered.

  “Then hop in, everyone. My name’s Alisha. Tonight, you’re going to see Paris like it should be seen."

  She waited until we were all situated on the suede seats before turning around to address us.

  “Day tours are no way to see Paris. Paris is a romantic feeling, and its best felt at night. Don’t get me wrong, Paris is pretty by day, but at night it’s beautiful, and takes on a magic quality.” She glanced at the four of us, her gaze settling on Caroline’s face. “I can tell you’ve felt it already.” Both of them smiled. “Just enjoy.” She gave the reins a flick and we were off.

  It was a warm summer evening, stars sprinkling bright in the sky. Paris by night did not disappoint. It was intoxicating, a romantic fragrance that lingered over the city like an invisible fog. At the western end of the Champs-Élysées stood the famous Arc de Triomphe. I was more impressed than I thought I’d be. Seeing it a hundred times in old movies is not the same as up close, feeling the warmth of this beacon to freedom, a freedom which was sadly waning.